


Paint my world in brighter colors

by giantslinky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sick Dean Winchester, Sick!Dean, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:56:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giantslinky/pseuds/giantslinky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Dean's illness gets worse, Sam tries to help while the world darkens and pales around him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint my world in brighter colors

**Author's Note:**

> my first wincest fic! Although it's very mild, just cuddling and kissing:) It's Sam's POV for the majority of the fic and Dean's at the end.

The length of Dean's body beside him is a gentle reminder. The way air travels in and of his body, visible by the way his chest moves. The warmth of his skin where it touches Sam's own.  
They're all reminders. Dean's still here. 

They're huddled under the blue covers. Dean's warm back is curled against Sam's stomach. Sam holds a firm hand against his brother's stomach and feels the trembling skin expand on an inhale. And then he feels it still.   
"Dean. Breathe." The room is mostly black, the night has sucked all the light and colors out of it. But the moon provides some streaks of light. Sam can see that Dean's eyes are open and his pain has travelled down his face in wet trails. Dean's breath hitches and he shakes his head. Sam leans forward and kisses his brother's temple. His lips linger against the warm skin before he moves his mouth down to Dean's ear and whispers. "Dean, you need to breath. Come on. I'm right here, you're ok." He knows why his brother is doing this. The fear of another coughing fit together with the fever prevents Dean from thinking logically. "You're ok, you're ok, Dean. Let go." And Dean does. Because it's Sam asking. Sam feels him taking a careful breath against him. He keeps up the whispered reassurances and rubs Dean's stomach. "There you go, Dean. god job." 

Dean makes small hiccupping noises but manages not to cough again. Tissues are lying scattered across the dirty motel floor like a white surface of an ocean with a gritty and dark bottom. Sam has to remember to by more of them tomorrow. He presses closer to Dean, tries to help him by taking long and slow breaths. Just then a couple of harsh coughs escapes and leaves Dean wheezing. "Shh, Dean, you're alright. Shh it's ok. I'm gonna get you some water." Sam gets out from under the covers and tries not to see the way Dean pushes his body tiredly back to the space where Sam's body just was, as if chasing after him without really having the energy. Sam steps over some tissues and heads into the kitchen. 

The wallpapers are a fiery orange color and they almost hurt his eyes, they're so bright. They have some kind of pattern on them. Little suns and stars. Outside the sky is only black. There's something particular about the silence of the night. It behaves differently, as if it's more comfortable with itself than it would be during the night. Sam feels a strange sort of guilt when he turns the tap on and destroys that silence.  
Dean has curled up some more on the bed, his nose almost touching his knees. It looks like he's fallen back asleep. Sam carefully sets the glass down on the side table and lowers himself down on the bed. The springs in the mattress complain under him and it's enough to wake his brother up. Dean lets out a broken no before he starts coughing again. The sound of it has changed. Earlier, it was a dry and barking sound. Now it's wet and thick and Sam hoped Dean can cough some of the mucus up. But Dean just gags and gasps, new tears falling.   
"Dean. Dean." Sam feels the first straps of panic tighten around his chest. Maybe he can't do this. He gently grabs Dean under his armpits and sits him up against him. Dean's head fall down on Sam's shoulder. The coughing lessons a bit, seems like sitting up is helping. Sam maneuvers himself so Dean is sitting between his legs. By the time he presses Dean back against his chest, the coughing has stopped.   
Sam reaches for the glass. He kisses Dean's temple again. It feels even warmer now. "Dean, I have some water for you." Dean manages three small sips before moaning and turning his head away. "Okay, Dean." Sam puts the glass back. "You did good...I love you." Dean's eyes seem to search out something in the dark. Then he says, quietly "Mom?" The moon is still sending some of its light into the motel room, but Sam doesn't need to see Dean's face to know what it looks like. The voice is so small and heartbroken that Sam doesn't need to see Dean's lower lip to know it's quivering. Or his eyes to know they're swimming with pain and confusion.   
He doesn't answer. Can't. Instead he lets the silence do it for him.   
Except it doesn't. It doesn't offer any solace or explanation. Its presence only amplifies the absence of Sam's voice. He doesn't know where it is. It feels like the darkness has swallowed it. He cradles Dean to him, let's his head fall in the crook of his neck. Sam closes his eyes before he can see more of the tears. 

He doesn't know which color his voice has but it feels black. Hollowed out. 

...

He wakes up slowly. The warmth is the first thing he feels. Dean is still cradled to his chest and the cover is pulled up around them. He tilts his head forward a bit, tries to see his brother's face. What he can see isn't good.   
Dean is just as pale as yesterday, only now his skin is dry instead of clammy, and even hotter. There hadn't been any more coughing during the night. Sam hadn't fallen asleep until the sun started filling the room with its first gentle rays of light of the day, and Dean had stayed sleeping.   
Sam isn't so sure Dean is only sleeping now. He calls his name, tries to wake him up. Dean remains still against him. He lays Dean down on his side and gets out of the bed. He doesn't really know what it is he's looking for. They don't own a thermometer. He stands still, his thoughts too loud and mixed together to actually hear.   
A movement outside the window catches his attention. It's a bird and it's blue. It flies over the hood of the impala. The car. He has to take the car, get Dean to a hospital. Sam makes a grab for the car keys and it's only then he sees how much his hands are shaking. He can't drive, he'll get them both killed.   
He calls 911.   
Sam sits beside Dean on the bed and waits for the ambulance. He tried to get Dean to drink a little more, just a little. But it was useless.   
Useless. A familiar feeling.   
He watches Dean's back. Tries to take comfort from the way it's still moving. He looks at Dean's spine, visible under the skin that the sickness has thinned out. It looks like pebbles rolling down a hill, in a perfectly neat line.   
Sam doesn't hear the sirens. He's too focused on Dean, too focused on the little signs that tells him he's still awake. When the room fills with blinking lights he looks up for the first time since the call.   
The paramedics are loud. They talk so fast Sam has to sit down on the bed again. He's dizzy with worry and all the colors seem to jumble together.   
The paramedics turn Dean over, rolls him onto his back. Blood is coming out of his nose and it's red, red, red. Every other color fade and suddenly it's all Sam can see. But he hadn't before. He had been to focused on Dean's back. 

The inside of the ambulance doesn't have any colors. Dean is lying on the stretcher, still not awake. His hand is so still, Sam barely recognizes it in his own. When the ambulance stops and they rush away with Dean, he can't follow. He's stuck yet again. Clasping his hands together doesn't help. They still shake uncontrollably. Sam looks down at them and regrets it when he sees a red fleck on his thumb. 20 minutes later a nurse finds him and brings him in to the hospital. 

Severe pneumonia they tell him. They also tell him it was the right thing to do, calling 911. That doesn't make him feel any better. He goes to find out where his brother is. 

There's a draft from the window. Sam tells the nurse but she tells him there's nothing she can do about it. Dean's condition worsens one day later and Sam bullies them into putting Dean in another room. They do and it helps. He's condition improves some, but he's still fully dependent on the ventilator. Sam punches a wall. Blue bruises scatter across his knuckles.   
The chair is green and made of plastic and metal. It leaves Sam crooked and aching. But he doesn't allow himself to feel it. It's not fair to Dean. Instead he frequently takes short walks in the corridor outside Dean's room for some relief. The walls are a pale yellow.   
The beeping from the machines are the only noise in the room. Sam can almost see them, they spread like an infection to his every senses. The beeping are angry red dots blinking beside his brother's bed. Sam doesn't want to see them. He closes his eyes.   
The tears slip down his cheeks. They get caught on his nose before they land on his hands, his thighs, the floor. Everywhere they land, they're colorless 

 

\---------------------------  
Dean knows where he is as soon as he opens his eyes. Everything is white and clean smelling. Hospital. He lies still, feeling exhausted, and somehow also feeling like he's been sleeping for a long time. His whole body feels heavy. He has a breathing mask on but the soreness of his throat tells him it was a ventilator that helped him breath earlier.   
He remembers the motel and being in a lot of pain. It feels like years and years ago. Now pain has gone through pain and become glass. It's still there, he can't really feel it, just its presence. He feels its fragile balance and knows that if it tips over, he will shatter with it.   
He turns his head to the side and suddenly wishes he had done so sooner. Because there, almost folded in half, is Sam. And suddenly it's a little easier to breath. He knows he shouldn't talk, knows his throat will only hurt more. But that doesn't stop him, not even a little. Even though he just woke up his eyes are already closing against his will. He needs to wake Sam up before he goes back to sleep. He just needs to know Sam's okay first. 

"Saa.." It's low and more than raspy. But it works. Sam jerks awake, his brown hair falling into his eyes as he looks around for what woke him up. Dean smiles fondly and tries again. "Sam." Better now. And Sam finds Dean's eyes and he stares at him. The seconds go by without anything happening. But then Sam smiles, kind of laughs and rises from the chair. He walks up to Dean, looks a little uncertain, before he lifts up the oxygen mask and kisses Dean gently on the lips. He quickly puts the mask back in place afterwards.   
Dean smiles and is about to ask Sam if he's okay but Sam shakes his head. "Don't talk. It's ok. I'm ok, and you're going to be too. I'm just..so glad you're awake." Dean wants to answer him but his eyes close and his struggles to open them again doesn't do much.   
"It's okay, just sleep, Dean. I'll be here." And just like that, Dean relaxes. Because whatever it was he wanted to tell Sam, it can wait. Because Sam will be there tomorrow. And always.


End file.
